Storytime
by CaptainHooksGirl
Summary: Storytime had become one of his favorite pastimes with Cosette, but when his daughter begins to question his past, Valjean is caught between risking her reaction to the truth and one day being caught up in a lie. So he does what any good father would do...he answers with a story.


**Author's Note: Well, I'm back again with another 'Les Mis' story, this time focusing on some Valjean/Cosette father/daughter time. :) I wrote this piece with Hugh Jackman and Isabelle Allen's interpretations of the characters in mind, though the musical/movie doesn't really have time to focus on what it might have been like for Cosette growing up. In fact, it pretty much just skips over her entire childhood...so the timeline is more book-based and/or slightly AU. Hope you enjoy it! Please leave a comment if you like it. :)**

**~CaptainHooksGirl~**

**Disclaimer: The characters and storyline of Les Miserables do not belong to me, nor will they ever.**

**Storytime**

"Papa! Papa! Will you tell us a story?"

A nine year-old Cosette rushed down the stairs, wet strands of sandy blonde hair dripping down her back and leaving dark blotches on the thin cotton nightgown thrown hastily over her head, its too-big neckline slumping off of one shoulder. In her right arm she clutched a beautiful porcelain doll wearing a dress of fine satin and silks. A few months ago, she never would have dreamed of owning such a doll—much less owning such dresses for herself!—but ever since Monsieur Madeleine had rescued her from the Thénardiers, life had been full of such wonderful, unexpected surprises.

Valjean looked up from his seat on the sofa near the fire, smiling at his daughter's eager blue eyes. Never before had he realized how lonely his life had been until she came into the picture. Oh, he'd been around children before—after all, it had been his act of stealing bread to feed his sister's youngest son that had gotten him in trouble with the law in the first place—but somehow this was different. To have a child solely dependent upon his care, a child who looked at him as though he could turn the world, was something that he'd never experienced. And the outpouring of innocent, unconditional love had thoroughly melted whatever remnants of hatred and despair he still harbored within his heart from his days of youth.

He glanced briefly at the clock, its golden chimes proclaiming the lateness of the hour.

"Shouldn't you be in bed, Cosette? It's a bit late for a story tonight. Perhaps tomorrow."

The girl frowned, shoulders sagging in a disappointed shrug. "But Genevieve can't sleep without a story," she protested, shyly hugging the doll to her chest. "She gets bad dreams."

"Is that so?" he asked, to which Cosette nodded seriously. "Well, then," he answered gravely, "we can't have that, can we?" He smiled and patted the seat beside him, tucking away the papers he'd been studying for a more appropriate time. "What sort of story would you and Genevieve like to hear?"

Bouncing the rest of the way down the stairs, Cosette hopped up onto the couch and snuggled into her father's arms. It was springtime now, but the nights were still cool, and the fire felt good against her damp skin. "Tell us a story about you, Papa."

Valjean was taken aback. "About _me_?" He blanched.

Cosette nodded. "Yes—like why you have that number on your chest or how you met my mother."

The former mayor swallowed nervously. He hadn't expected such a bold request, and now he was beginning to regret not having simply launched into another fairytale with ogres and dragons and magical beings who granted children wishes. He frowned. "Wouldn't you rather hear about the princess who lives in the castle on a cloud?"

The girl shook her head. "I already know that one, Papa. I want to hear something different, something new."

For a moment, the room was silent. Then he sighed. "Alright, Cosette. I'll tell you story about a man I once knew…a man no worse than any other man…but a man who didn't always make the best decisions…a man who was lost until a single act of mercy made him see the light."

Cosette scooted closer, her interest piqued by the strange beginning to his tale. She looked up. "What was the man's name, Papa?"

"His name…" he hesitated, his voice hardly more than a whisper in her ear. "His name was Jean Valjean."

He paused for a moment, terrified that that information alone would be enough to give him away, but if there was any grain recognition in her mind, she hid it well, eyes wide in captivated wonder rather than the terror he expected. He relaxed, if only slightly.

"This man—Jean Valjean—lived a simple life. He was a gardener of sorts—a pruner and a woodsman who took work where he could and was more at home among the fields and flowers than in the company of men. He had no wife and no children of his own, so when his sister's husband passed away, leaving her and their seven children without a means of income, he did everything he could to help support them." He took a deep breath. "One winter when it was especially cold and the food was especially scarce, the youngest child fell ill. He was weak and near to death, starvation having wreaked its havoc upon his already frail and fragile body. The money Valjean earned was not enough to put bread on the table, and so, seeing no other choice, he broke a window one night and stole a loaf of bread."

The girl frowned. "Why didn't he just ask the baker for some bread? Surely the baker wouldn't have let the child starve!"

Valjean sighed. "It's not that simple, Cosette."

"But stealing is wrong, isn't it, Papa?"

He flinched, a single word of reprimand from this tiny slip of a girl doing more damage to his conscience than all his years underneath the whip combined.

"Yes, Cosette, it_ is_ wrong. But remember, Valjean was a man who did not always make the best decisions."

Seemingly satisfied, the girl nodded, resuming a quiet stance as she waited for him to continue, prompting him gently only after his momentary lapse in silence became difficult to endure. "What happened next?"

"Well, he didn't make it very far before the police caught up with him. He was taken away to a prison called Toulon and the bread was left to rot in the street."

Cosette frowned again. "But what about the boy—his sister's son and the other children?"

"No one knows." Valjean shook his head sadly. "He never saw them again." He paused again, unable to speak for the emotion that suddenly swelled up in his throat. He licked his lips before continuing. "The prison was a horrible place, and he tried several times to escape it—each ending a failure that added more time to his sentence. By the time he was allowed to leave, it had been nineteen years since he'd been free."

"Nineteen _years_?!" Cosette gasped. "For a loaf of bread? That doesn't seem fair! He was only trying to help his family."

Valjean chuckled. "That's what he thought too. In fact, he was so angry at the flawed system of justice that landed him in that prison—so angry at _humanity_—that when he was finally set free, he decided that he would make the world pay for its crimes against him, and he became the monster that society labeled him."

His eyes had grown dark and distant, staring into the flames with an intensity that would have made an ordinary man squirm. But Cosette trusted her father, and so she merely waited until the moment passed, quietly if not with a little impatience, knowing that her efforts would pay off. When he started up again, she had become so accustomed to the silence that she jumped a little, the soft crackling of the flames fading into the background as she was transported once again to the world of Jean Valjean, the curious criminal who was not entirely a bad man.

"No one would harbor a former convict, so when he was admitted to a church, he was rather surprised to find that the bishop did not turn him out but treated him as any other man, allowing him to eat off of his silver platters and showing him more kindness than anyone ever had before. Valjean, however, was still a criminal at heart, and that night, he ran off with the bishop's silver."

Cosette crossed her arms. "That wasn't very nice."

"No, it wasn't," he agreed. "But Valjean wasn't really concerned about being nice. He still felt like the world owed him something, and if that meant taking advantage of a foolish old bishop, then so be it." He frowned suddenly, realizing not for the first time just how low he'd once been willing to stoop to take matters of justice into his own hands. "Of course, the police found him again," he continued, "and by morning he was back at the church with two accusing guards—one at each side—forcing him onto his knees before the bishop to confess his sin. The man was horrified, knowing that the bishop had to say but one word and he'd be right back in the jail he'd waited so long to escape from. But then, just as he was waiting for the bishop to seal his fate, the clergyman did something unexpected—he lied."

The child gasped.

"He told the officers that he had _given_ Valjean the silver and that, in fact, Valjean had forgotten the most valuable pieces of all—two large silver candlesticks set out on the table."

"Like our candlesticks, Papa?"

"Yes, Cosette. Very much like ours." He poked her playfully on the nose, earning a fit of childish giggles. He smiled. "Needless to say, Valjean was shocked, pierced to the heart by the bishop's undeserved act of kindness. He vowed from that moment forward to devote his life to God and to start anew, breaking his parole and moving to a new place where he took on a different name, leaving his past behind."

Cosette yawned, still interested though her eyelids were becoming heavy. "Is that the end of the story, Papa?"

"Oh, no, Cosette, there is still much more. But perhaps I should save it for another ni—"

"NO!" She bolted up, suddenly wide awake. "I'm not too tired. Genevieve wants to hear the end of it tonight! Please, Papa, don't stop now!"

He chuckled softly. "Alright. But just this once. Next time, you're going to bed _on time_—no matter what Genevieve says." He narrowed his eyes and gave her a knowing grin, causing Cosette to duck her head and blush.

Valjean shook his head, smiling, before resuming the story.

"Well, after starting his new life, Valjean became rather popular among the people of his town. He gained wealth and influence and was eventually appointed mayor of the town, though he continued to run a rather large factory in addition to seeing to his political duties. Unfortunately, when one runs a factory of such size, he often does not know all the goings-on from day to day, and one day without his knowing, a young woman who worked for him was sent out on the streets. This woman, hardly more than a girl herself, was supporting a child by herself, and without a proper job, she feared her child would starve."

He stopped for a moment, taking in the soft, childlike features of the girl in his lap, and remembering another face much like hers in a hospital bed, eyes dead and glassy staring into nothingness. He shuddered.

"She sold everything she had—her jewelry, her hair, her teeth."

The image conjured was enough to cause Cosette discomfort, and for once, he was immensely grateful that he hadn't been able to reunite mother and daughter before Fantine's untimely death. Better that she remember her mother as being the happy, whole, beautiful woman she was before than the broken, bruised, prostitute he'd carried to the hospital. When he spoke again, his voice was low, so quiet that Cosette had to strain to hear him.

"Last of all, when she had nothing left to offer, she sold the most precious thing of all—herself."

The girl hesitated, desiring to understand but afraid to speak when she noticed the molten pools that had gathered in his eyes. "Like a slave?" she asked quietly.

The look of pity in his gaze seemed to intensify as he glanced down at the child. "In a manner of speaking, yes."

"That's sad," she observed, still not fully comprehending the depth of her father's pain.

"Indeed. It was very sad." He closed his eyes, drawing another deep breath before releasing a sigh. "One day the woman was attacked. She fought back in self-defense, but as slave of sorts, her word meant little to the authorities, and she was charged with assault. She had become ill by that time, life on the streets having dealt her a harsh blow. In truth, she needed a doctor—but of course, she couldn't afford one—and what little income she did make would soon disappear if she was sent to jail, and then she would have no way to support her child. She didn't know what to do."

Cosette's face lit up. "I bet Valjean helped her out, didn't he, Papa?" she asked excitedly.

The man blinked, surprised by her perceptive intuition. "Yes, indeed he did. It just so happened that he was passing by when he noticed Javert, the police inspector who had been hunting him ever since he broke parole, attempting to arrest the woman whom he recognized as having worked at his factory."

She frowned again. "Javert scares me. I've heard his name on the streets. Nobody likes him—not even the other policemen." The girl scrunched up her face in obvious disgust. "I hope_ I_ never meet him."

"Now, Cosette, you shouldn't hate someone just because of what everyone says. After all, he is only doing his job."

She considered the truth of his words. "But Valjean must have hated him," she protested. "He tried to arrest him—and his friend!"

"For a while he did, but then he realized that if anything, Javert was a man to be pitied rather than despised."

"Pitied?" She cocked her head.

"Yes. Pitied for being alone in the world with only the law for a companion." He looked her in the eye, taking her hand in his. "Sometimes a man's greatest enemy is his own reflection, and left to his own devices, he may eventually destroy himself. There is no sadder portrait than a man who dies without a friend to mourn his loss or a heavenly Father to welcome him home. Never forget that, Cosette. Do you understand?"

She nodded slowly, still unsure. "I…I think so."

He patted the back of her hand lovingly. "Good girl." He smiled. "Now, where was I? Ah, yes—Javert was about to arrest the young woman when Valjean stepped in. Now, Javert didn't recognize him at first—it had been many years since he'd left the prison, and he looked very different—so, reluctantly, he allowed the mayor to take the girl to a hospital where Valjean paid for her care." His countenance darkened. "Unfortunately, it wasn't enough. The woman died after only a few short weeks, leaving her daughter in his care." He swallowed thickly. "He promised her…. H-he promised her that the child would want for nothing, and that he would raise her as his own."

Distressed by the tears that had begun to slip down her father's cheeks, she quickly moved to brush them away. "Oh, don't cry, Papa! It's only a story!"

He raised a hand to wipe his cheeks and attempted a sad smile. "Of course. It's only a story."

Seeing the crisis averted, she returned to her previous position, sitting cross-legged on the cushion beside her father and resting her chin in between her two palms, elbows situated comfortably on either side of her lap. "So what happened to the little girl?"

"Well, the man was good on his word. He found the child and took her in, and he loved her as he loved no other. But they were always on the run, always changing names and occupations and houses because, try as he might, he could never fully escape from his past." He licked his lips. "One day, the girl asked him for the truth, but he was afraid to tell her because he…." He turned away, suddenly overcome with emotion. "Oh, Cosette, I—"

He felt a small pair of arms encircle his chest.

"It's alright, Papa. You don't have to finish. I already know how the story ends."

"You do?" He looked up, his bleary-eyed gaze filled with a mixture of hope and fear.

She nodded. "They lived happily ever after," she answered confidently.

He sniffed, emitting a noise that sounded somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "And how do you know that, Cosette?"

She shrugged. "Because that's the way all good stories end when two people love each other." Resting her head in her father's lap, she closed her eyes and tried unsuccessfully to stifle another yawn. "Will _we_ live happily ever after too, Papa?"

And slowly—ever so slowly—a smile crept upon his face. Bending over to kiss her on the cheek, he whispered softly in her ear, "Yes, Cosette, I believe we will," her own soft smile fading as she drifted off to sleep in her father's arms.


End file.
